


Dragging Out the Sunshine

by Butane Baby (Butane_Baby9)



Category: Bulma - Fandom, Bulma and Vegeta, Dragon Ball, Dragon Ball Z, Vegebul - Fandom, Vegeta - Fandom, vegeta and bulma - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Dragon Ball Z AU, Drama, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 11:37:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16345982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butane_Baby9/pseuds/Butane%20Baby
Summary: A Dragon Ball Z AU fic:  Dr. Vegeta Chennault, a proud scientist and activist raised in Louisiana Cajun country, meets a smart rival in Washington, D.C., who picks his mind and heart’s rusty locks. He does the same for her.





	1. Disappear

Dr. Bulma Brief strolled out of the Hart Office Building carrying her smart black Saint Laurent briefcase –- made of grained leather, of course. She avoided looking smug but her client had made a strong case, charming what had been an irritable group of senators presiding over an important hearing. The late afternoon sun cast a stunning orange-and-yellow gleam over the U.S. Capitol as she considered walking to her brownstone home in the brisk fall air or visiting a neighborhood wine bar.

Newcomers to the area had crowned it "ritzy." Some were snobbier than Bulma expected, having lived in the area for more than a decade. Now forty-seven years old, she had long shed excitement over seeing idealistic young interns and cynical old politicos on Capitol Hill. That said, many D.C. residents weren't venomous snakes either. Families with rich, vibrant histories had lived there for generations. None considered their home a  _"_ swamp _,"_ considering it a disrespectful nickname from ignorant outsiders with their heads up their asses.

But Bulma had become a lobbyist, a class of professionals either respected or reviled depending on whom they represented. In her case, a chemical manufacturing company used her expertise to win support for legislation favoring its interests. She got paid well, too, like most others representing big businesses.

She completed her doctorate at twenty-four as a chemist. Back then she was considered a rising star, with top universities asking her to join their faculties. One professor convinced himself that she would win the Nobel Prize under his tutelage. However long that would take, Bulma didn't know. She really hadn't set that goal anyway. Her father, also a chemist, took a hands-off approach to her doubts. Dr. Nathan Brief was a laid-back, friendly man who appreciated a simpler existence. He wanted Bulma to be happy, wherever her interests guided her.

Despite her high-flying lifestyle, Bulma would never deny her humble Kansas upbringing. Still, she made uneasy compromises with the morals her parents taught. Her client, Dowdie Chemical Corporation, had to repair its image after manufacturing plants in southern states failed over more than a decade to dispose wastewater properly. Hoping to avoid a pollution disaster, brave front-line workers sought help from the Stewards, an environmentalist group. They got more than they bargained for.

Dr. Vegeta Chennault, the Stewards executive director in Washington, was a bare-knuckled fighter for the cause. His organization brought the first lawsuits against Dowdie for its negligence five years earlier, forcing corrupt executives who hid problems to admit wrongdoing. Some went to jail. Now, Dowdie said it couldn't reverse the damage quickly unless the government relaxed regulations for years.

" _Fucking_  liars," Vegeta said on national television. "If Dowdie can pay a toilet full of  _shitty_ lobbyists, then it can spend enough to fix the damage its overpaid managers willfully ignored. The company's high stock price and the CEO's $23 million in pay tells  _me_  their side is doing  _just fine_."

One of those "shitty" lobbyists happened to be a smart, well-spoken woman walking past. Vegeta's mocking eyebrow arched as their eyes set like concrete. Bulma crossed her arms, daring him to speak directly, until her iPhone rang. She had to postpone their gladiator battle but _would_ reclaim her honor -- but not now. Vegeta winked, throwing down the gauntlet for the rematch.

Usually Bulma ignored such nonsense, but Vegeta had mastered the art of distraction. His Cajun cheekiness and sharp intellect captured the room when he testified. With aplomb, he neared the edges of verbal contempt without crossing into disrespect when senators asked rude and blatantly stupid questions. Transfixed, Bulma sat behind Dowdie representatives quietly.

Her office had opposition research on him and Stewards' offices throughout the U.S. Eventually, one of her partners suggested using it. Negative campaigns could sow public doubt about honest people as much as dishonest ones. Bulma, however, believed her clients could win on their case's merit. She hoped to steer clear of scorched-earth attack. Vegeta wasn't going away, but they had won this round.

Vegeta laughed darkly at the amused news reporters before leaving the Senate building. He also dismissed his worried retinue of volunteers, telling them to focus on the work.  _He took care of_ _himself_.

 _"_ Disparaître!" he snapped. When the native Louisianan said "disappear," he damned well meant it. He swore that Washington's fifty-degree October weather felt like the Antarctic. His discomfort  also blinded flirtations from women and men strolling past. He wasn't the tallest person, but he was striking. Dark eyes, supple lips, manicured goatee, and a muscular physique were the cake. His thick black mane, bearing a silver streak across one side, was the icing.

He didn't don a standard men's suit at the Senate hearing. Instead, he testified wearing a crème-colored turtleneck shirt, brown tweed jacket, and a grey, multi-dot scarf. Jeans and brown brushed-leather shoes were fine accents. Dressing like this didn't come naturally. At home he preferred denim overalls and moccasins. Underwear was optional. Declan, his Irish brother-in-law with more money than Satan, said attractive men should dress accordingly based on their surroundings. Vegeta had his pride, but both men found it entertaining that Declan spent like a gambler to dress  _him_.

They also grieved together. Emaline, Vegeta's twin sister, died of breast cancer two years earlier, devastating their family and many friends. Her demeanor was less rough than her two brothers, but she was just as intense and loyal. She eventually moved to Washington with her husband to be closer to Vegeta. Before dying, she asked Declan to stick by her ornery sibling. He agreed without hesitation.

"It may not seem like it, but Vegeta is the most sensitive one in our brood," she told him. "He pushes others away when he believes he's failed. He couldn't fix what happened to our precious père, although nothing was his fault. He cannot... fix what's happening to me now. Remind him with a loving heart, cher."

Declan offered many gifts. He convinced Vegeta to visit New Orleans on the anniversary of Emaline's burial, where they ate and drank like starved warriors. Declan almost launched a few bar fights, as well, which his brother-in-law saved them from before being jailed - or killed.

Vegeta cursed furiously in three languages at the man, including Gaelic. He had been to jail before, after a bar brawl while in college. Once was enough, especially in Louisiana.

"Difficult roads can lead to beautiful destinations," Declan said through pained blue eyes. "Now buy another stout. I feel like singing some melodies."

* * *

  
Vegeta had enough for the day – every day for the past year, actually. Dowdie Chemical wasn't his only fight. He believed in his work, but the emotional weight became heavier. He had withdrawn further inside of himself. Being an introvert –- a crabby one, he admitted –- had not stopped him from spending time with friends and family who genuinely cared. But now everyone noticed his increasing reticence, growing more concerned about their "mean old swamp creature." Vegeta's temperament earned the sobriquet, but men like him also valued honor and duty. Washington teemed with people far less honest, and the good ones wanted to help in spite of Dr. Chennault's cantankerousness.

The Chennault family had more than its fair share of pain after their patriarch died. Then and now, his wife and children considered "Big Vegeta" a king among men. The old-school, acid-tongued southerner from Lafayette, Louisiana, fought like holy hell to become a lawyer after being born poor. He never forgot his roots, though, dedicating his life to getting modest, hard-working people paid what they deserved for their labor. His offspring didn't grow up poor but were far from wealthy.

Young Vegeta, whose family nicknamed him "Prince Chennault," and Emaline had been intellectually gifted kids, and their father pushed them hard. At times he took them on business trips to understand their good fortune. The maternal grandfather, Remy, schooled them in natural riches of the Louisiana Bayou Country, traveling by canoe through the tree-lined waterways. The proud, loving returned with his grandchildren to spread their beloved father's ashes into the brackish water.

Big Vegeta died in a suspicious car accident while investigating a case. He made enough enemies in high places that Lafayette's citizens hardly were surprised, but they embraced the family. Before his death, the older Chennault said he "discovered something big." Vegeta took his father's death hardest, but grief didn't stop him. He trained as an environmental scientist, committed to helping the natural world and humans co-exist. Louisiana always would be his inspiration -- as well as his father.

He tried ignoring his birthday. He was now the same age as Big Vegeta before the family lost him. Declan and Barnabé, Vegeta's younger brother, expected a rough day for him. Then they saw news about the Senate hearing. Vegeta may not have wanted support, but they believed he needed it anyway -- and they knew exactly where he would be.

More than one-thousand miles west, in Leavenworth, Kansas, Bunny Brief wiped her hands while listening to her daughter on speakerphone.

"I just love your new haircut in those Instagram pictures, Bulma. Letting your hair grow longer on the right side fits perfectly."

"Thanks, mother."

"When are you coming home, dear?

"Not sure yet," Bulma said uncomfortably. "Maybe Thanksgiving or Christmas. I'm working a lot these days, you know."

Bunny sighed. "I'm sure you are. Take time to judge its importance – beyond money."

Bulma grinned and said, "But I like driving my Mercedes-Benz. You do too." Her father, who was smoking a pipe on the front porch, snorted and laughed.

"Stop that  _racket_  right now, Nathan, before I throw you from that chair!" Bunny screeched. After huffing a bit, she sweetly replied to Bulma, "Well, yes, but we aren't discussing  _me,_ young lady. I love you, darling, with all of my heart -- all of it. Whatever weighs down your spirit won't win."

Bulma felt tears welling. "I love you, mommy, very much. Give daddy a kiss for me. Bye."

"I always do, honey," Bunny said, laughing. "I like kissing him for myself too."

"She certainly does!" Nathan shouted. "Bye, gorgeous!"

 _Thank god I didn't wear heels today_. Bulma's stomach growled as soon as their call ended. The wine bar was off the table now. A true meal was in order tonight –- with lots of meat. She deserved the luxury _._

Bulma's next door neighbors constantly raved about a restaurant called Fleur-de-Lis. The eatery had been open almost three years, with good reviews from magazine food critics and the Washington Post. She stopped home to reapply makeup, have a glass a wine, and leave her briefcase, exchanging it for a small purse. After locking up, she pulled her wool coat closer to begin her stroll through six blocks of tree-lined sidewalks. She almost walked past the place until an antique gas lamp flickered over the door. A stained-glass plate bore a colorful flag adorned with blue, red, and white panels. Three silver fleur-de-lis were on the blue panel, a gold castle on red, and a gold star on the white.

Bulma never had seen the flag of Acadiana - the Cajun flag- before.

Vegeta felt skeptical when Declan said a "Louisiana-style" restaurant had opened on Capitol Hill. "What the hell does  _style_  mean?" he complained. "Either it's my kind of food or not! Quoi d'autre?"

Two years and ten pounds later, Fleur-de-Lis had become Prince Chennault's gastronomic and personal refuge. The owner and head chef, Fabien Bertrand, grew up in Eunice, Louisiana, about forty miles from Lafayette. Hosting his "frère" was an honor, no matter how early or late.

When Declan wasn't around, Vegeta didn't socialize much with other diners. Usually he sat in a corner to eat and work. After Emaline died, Fabien joined him sometimes. On this evening, though, Vegeta sat at the bar while patrons sought table seating. Most weren't interested in making merry on a Tuesday.

Fabien left the kitchen to greet him. "Trouble, mon frère?"

"Non." Vegeta shook his head. "Je voudrais un verre de vin rouge."

The chef's giant mouth bent into crooked smile. "You have not asked for  _anything_ this formally –- or this formal -- since we met, Dr. Chennault. Are you feeling all right? What's up the clothes? You look like you just stepped out of a Sherlock Holmes episode."

Vegeta scowled. "The wine. Now."

Fabien placed a tumbler glass in front. "Not yet. I have a better idea. How is your throat?

"Why?"

Fabien rolled his eyes. "Because you sound hoarse, Vegeta, which you know already. You're also rubbing your throat. A brandy sidecar should help with that -- or maybe a hot toddy after  _souper_."

"Fabien, the last thing I need is one of your heavy alcoholic drinks. I'll be knocked out cold through next week."

"At least you won't  _have_  a cold, hmm? Oh, before I forget, bonne fête à toi."

Vegeta looked up. "I never told  _you_  about my birthday. Did Declan say something?"

" _Non_ ," Fabien said, waving him off. "Doesn't matter. I've said it. Now drink your wine. I'll bring out boudin balls and étouffée shortly."

"No birthday cake, bread pudding or pralines," Vegeta grumbled. "Can you restrain yourself?"

"Of course."

Vegeta hated being called out. True, he wasn't feeling well. He couldn't put on a show anymore. That part of the day had ended. He pushed the wine glass aside, wearily propping an elbow on the bar and hand beneath his chin.

"Looks like you've had a long day," a woman's voice said softly.

Vegeta turned around and glared.  _Damn. It's about to get longer._

* * *

**Hello! Thank you for reading! Please time to leave a comment if the spirit moves you.**


	2. Anticipation and Uncertainty

Bulma considered leaving Fleur-de-Lis after after recognizing Vegeta at the bar. For some reason seeing him all alone bothered her. He never had been a big drinker around others, according to the vast D.C. socialite network she took part in. His half-finished water and glass of wine provided solid evidence.

"May I sit next to you? I saw you here and figured we could just chat."

Vegeta was incredulous. "I do bite, you know. Plus, don't your partners have better methods to collect research on _the enemy_? They sent you to lion's den alone? On my turf? Bon dieu!"

"There  _is_  no they," Bulma said coolly. "I'm hungry. Not everything is about you, Dr. Chennault."

Vegeta laughed and said, "You bet your ass it is. I am considered an  _environmentalist_ , which has all sorts of stereotypes attached to it.  _You_  are paid quite handsomely to discredit everything I do."

"That's not true."

"And you're equivocating, Dr. Brief," Vegeta said sarcastically. "I can believe you didn't know I was here, but you would be  _an idiot_  for not taking advantage."

After leaving the kitchen, Fabien placed several small plates down and asked, "Is there a problem here? Is he making trouble for you, cher?"

"Me?" Vegeta's eyes narrowed. "Content que je n'ai pas de couteau."

"How rude." Fabien sniffed dramatically. "You shouldn't threaten to stab your host in front of the lady. At the very least your French could sound  _more Cajun_  when you do. Don't mind him, Ms. –- um, I didn't catch your name."

"Dr. Brief," Bulma replied with a flirtatious smile. " _You_  can call me Bulma."

Vegeta nearly gagged watching Fabien kiss her hand. "Oh, give it a rest –- both of you. My assumptions were all wrong. You're intelligence agents trying to kill each other, not me. My ego has been destroyed."

Fabien winked. "He must like you, Dr. Brief. I haven't seen him this talkative here in months."

 _How shitty is this day going to be?_ Vegeta's squinted hard. _Fabien will pay for this._

Bulma blushed. "Well, I, um. I see Dr. Chennault obviously needs to be alone. I understand. I'm sorry to have disturbed you both."

Fabien stared thoughtfully at Vegeta and replied, "There is a difference between wanting and needing, cher. He does not need to be right now, and there is nothing to apologize for."

"OK, I'm done with you," Vegeta snapped. "Beyond the fact that she's beautiful, you don't know this woman from a turtle! Give me a box for my food.  _Don't_  expect me to return."

The chef held up his meaty finger to Bulma. "At least we both agree that you are beautiful! We both heard him say it!"

That irritating tickle in Vegeta's throat quickly transformed into a barking cough, startling the other two. They jumped backward in almost perfect sync.

Bulma handed Vegeta water. "Are you all right?"

He coughed again. "Does it…look like it...to you?"

Fabien walked around to place his thick, broad hands on Vegeta's shoulders. "Calm yourself. You should have listened to me. The other bartender will make your hot toddy. Drink it and then go home. Dr. Brief, if you choose to stay, my hostess would be happy to seat you anywhere. Your meal is free. Pardon me, but I must return to the kitchen."

Bulma nodded after a refined, sober study of Vegeta's condition. "Thank you, Fabien."

Vegeta cringed inside watching her watch him. He gave a grand performance on TV and in Congress despite how utterly terrible he felt, and now this happens. So many "weaknesses" were on display: depressed, lonely, tired, and possibly sick. His missed his sister. He and Declan agreed that Emaline dragged sunshine out of them at their lowest moments.

"Sometimes…we have to remind ourselves that we're human," Bulma said quietly.

Vegeta smirked. "Who, exactly, is  _we_? I know what I am."

"Stop being an ass, Chennault."

"You're still here talking to me," Vegeta said evenly. " _Why?_   Do you feel guilty about being a lobbyist after hearing me speak today?  _It's your job_. I am merely a means to an end for your bank account.  _Own it_."

"Jesus, man!" Bulma dropped her purse on the bar with a thud. "How do you keep friends? Do you still make them?"

"I pay them."

"You must be a billionaire, then."

They had perfect comedic timing.

Bulma laughed first. Vegeta sipped his wine nonchalantly, offering an amused snort. Bulma's howls grew louder at Vegeta's gradually weakening attempts to restrain himself. Only after turning deep red did he admit defeat. He laughed - and enjoyed it. By then Bulma was face-down on the bar, banging her fists.

With the tension broken, the bartender approached. "Are you staying with the lady, Dr. Chennault?"

"No one brought a takeout box yet, so I suppose I will."

The bartender smiled at Bulma. "And what would you like to eat?"

Fabien burst out of the kitchen. "I see you're both still here!"

* * *

Around 10:30 p.m. Vegeta and Bulma heard Louisiana zydeco music humming from next door, where a small group of Fabien's workers gathered for dancing and beer drinking. The restaurant had been closed an hour already. They lost track of time after giving the merry chef their watches and phones to chat off the record.

Bulma glanced at the wall clock and said, "Does Fabien let you shut down the place often?"

Vegeta yawned and stretched. "He would more if I brought another attractive woman to meet _him_. Anyway, it is late. I believe we've covered the fascinating history of the Mongolian Empire tonight. Maybe we'll discuss what we  _really_  want to know another time, beyond the anodyne research we have on each other already."

Bulma leaned forward. "Are you happy with what you're doing, Vegeta?"

" _Happy_  has nothing to do with it. It is what I am  _supposed_  to do. I have good and bad days like anyone else, but I knew early where my life would go. I'm my father's son. And you?"

With impeccable timing, Fabien peered through the kitchen door. "Apparently neither of you is working tomorrow, so feel free  _to_   _leave the restaurant_  for my sitting room upstairs. Good conversation is hard to come by. Your accessories are there."

Bulma stood and laughed as Fabian tossed his keys. "Well, how about it?"

Vegeta shook his head. "Couillon."

Fabien looked at him. "Which  _one_  of us is the fool again, Dr. Chennault? Bye-Bye."

Climbing the steep stairs wasn't easy. Vegeta and Bulma held hands, praying that neither fell backward. She snickered immediately after opening the door. Fabien perfumed the cozy room with a heady mix of lilac and musk. Soft electronic music played in the background. A tray of after-dinner liqueurs sat by the fireplace.

Vegeta tilted his head. "What?"

"Could Fabien make his plans for us a little  _less_  obvious, Chennault? He really does not know me."

"That's not his personality," Vegeta replied. "It's annoying. He assumes I haven't had sex with anyone within this decade."

"Have you?"

Vegeta crossed his arms indignantly. "None of your fucking business."

"Oh, _that's_ a relief," Bulma said, teasing him further. "You have then. I was concerned."

"Is that a proposition?"

"Not hardly, you vulgar, tree-hugging hippie."

" _Hn._ You're missing out, iron lady. My  _trunk_  is sturdier than Northern California redwood tree."

Bulma raised her champagne flute. "Please stop while you're ahead, you swine."

Vegeta heard Emaline's happy voice in her laughter. It felt like a ton of bricks hit him.

"Hey, did I say something wrong?"

Vegeta blinked to regain focus. "I… would tell you. Continue from where we left off. Are you happy?"

"Like you said, happy has nothing to do with it," Bulma said, moving toward the fireplace. "But I don't consider everything I do as a means to an end. I have worked for firms that do good work."

"And now?"

Bulma frowned. "Are you going to judge my choices all night, Vegeta?"

"I'm not.  _You are._  Forgive me if I'm wrong –- which I'm usually not with these things –- but you don't sound invested as much in your life."

Bulma leaned back to cross her legs. "Since we're being honest, I suspect you can say the same about yourself. I can see now that you're wondering if anything you've done will matter in a large way."

Vegeta paused and sighed. "I think about it all the time. It's not entirely about my ego, either. No one is harder than me than I am on myself."

Bulma nodded. "I understand."

The room's warmth felt hypnotic, and they both knew what would happen if they stayed longer. Bulma set her glass down while Vegeta retrieved their coats. After a brief search, she found his scarf and draped it around his neck, tucking it between his jacket's lapels.

Vegeta took in every inch of her beauty. He rarely stared into anyone's eyes, no matter how much he liked them or considered them attractive. Telling Bulma she had a good heart now would be ridiculously condescending coming from a man like him, he thought. He had said enough already.

"I'm sorry about all of this," Bulma said, touching his face. You're a good, good man."

Returning to seriousness, Vegeta stepped back. "If you believe that, then come work with me."

"Say what? You want  _me_ to come work for you?"

"I didn't say work  _for_  me, Bulma. You're a chemist with a strong voice. My side needs you."

"Vegeta, you also need people working in the trenches, on the inside, with businesses to encourage changing bad practices. These companies employ lots of people who need their jobs."

"Exactly, and I agree. They also overpay too many people who don't give two shits about the other ones. No wonder people are sticking pitchforks in each other all over the country."

"You sound like a bleeding-heart liberal."

"Oh?" Vegeta unhurriedly kissed her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers. "That's interesting. I can't believe you don't know that I'm Republican."

"You're not  _registered_  as one right now."

"But you know I have been for the last twenty-five years. I have been in the party's ass ever since I joined, irritating folks like dog fleas. And what does a Democrat like you care anyway?"

"Wait a minute." Bulma pushed him back. "How did…"

"Do you really want to discuss this right now?"

"Not really." Bulma brushed her skirt down, looking around. "It's too warm in here. We both need to get some sleep -- especially you. Your voice sounds worse than before. I think you really are sick."

Vegeta was  _roasting_ all over. He couldn't tell if it was his libido, a fever, or the fire. "I think I'm sick too, but will that stop us?"

Bulma smiled as their foreheads touched. "Kiss my fingers like that again and you might get bitten, country boy."

He did, paying attention only to her breathing. She tugged at his scarf as he pulled her closer. Feeling her soft, gentle lips on his neck pushed the sadness away, at least for now. Was he was playing himself for a fool?

Bulma seemed to have read his mind. She placed her hand on his chest, feeling his solid heartbeat. "I'm still the enemy today, I guess, but I quit tomorrow. Let me take you home. You live in the Petworth neighborhood, right?"

"Yes, and I'll get an Uber."

"I live six blocks from here, Vegeta. Just walk with me. You don't have to come in. My car is out front and ready to go when we arrive."

* * *

Vegeta arrived home bleary-eyed and ten degrees colder. Bulma resisted asking to come inside, but she was  _dying_  to relieve herself. Inspecting his gorgeous townhome came in a close second. She scolded herself for wondering how he could pay the mortgage alone. He definitely made far less money. Her fingers tapped impatiently on the car's dashboard, which he noticed.

"Let me guess.  _Toilet_?"

Grateful, Bulma dropped her head on the steering wheel. " _Oh, thank god_. I didn't want to stop at a gas station. You know how being chilly makes you want to pee more, right?"

Vegeta cleared his throat. "I try not to think about it much, especially since I have to go myself. We'll enter in the back. There's a bathroom near the kitchen. I have another upstairs."

Bulma felt like she was on sacred ground after he switched the lights on. She turned to him and said, "This house is stunning."

"It should be. My  _soeur_  and her  _mari_ sank enough money into it. They could have bought an island."

"They gave this to you?"

"Declan gave it to me after we buried Emaline." Vegeta stopped to rub his tired eyes. "The bathroom is to your right. Feel free to make tea before you leave. I'll see you out when I return."

 _He would probably laugh at me tiptoeing around like this._  Bulma felt a pang of jealousy at the careful attention paid to the decor. Even the bathroom fixtures were exquisite. From what she knew of Washington's architecture, the house probably was built during the 1930s. This was Emaline's dream home, clearly, and one she wanted to share with family.

On a wall above the fireplace hung an enlarged black-and-white family photo that Bulma guessed was taken in Louisiana. The Chennault kids, all dressed in overalls, were positioned in front of their parents near a fishing pond. Emaline and Barnabé made funny faces at each other while Vegeta stood erect. His father's steady hand proudly rested on his shoulder.

Bulma touched the mantle, wondering what Vegeta thought.  _Even as a boy, you look like you were born into this world a man._

Afterward, about five minutes passed before the heated teapot released a strong whistle. Bulma poured hot water into a thermos with a bag of ginger tea for herself and waited another ten minutes before taking Vegeta's mug upstairs. She figured he was changing clothes, so she tapped gently on the bedroom door. When he didn't answer she cracked it open. He was resting on the comforter, shoes off, with his turtleneck and pants on.

"I'm awake," he said groggily. "I'm awake. Has your nosiness about my home been satisfied, cher?"

"You're barely awake," Bulma said. She sat next to him somewhat self-conscious about being his caretaker for an evening, but he had been incredibly charming. It felt natural. "You're calling me  _cher_ now? What's next - an engagement? Can't I get some fried oysters first?"

Vegeta coughed until he was forced to sit up. "Give me the damned tea. Cajuns call their pet raccoons cher. Look, there are two other bedrooms. Just stay here. I'm definitely not working later today."

"OK, I'll stay, but I'm not leaving until you drink this tea. I mixed other stuff in to help your throat."

"Are you serious about quitting your job?"

"I'm not doing it to impress  _you_ , Dr. Chennault. I had been thinking about it earlier."

"How much of an ass do you think I am?" Vegeta's sipping barely hid his satisfied smirk about Bulma's choice. "How could you possibly think that?"

Bulma cocked her eyebrow. "You are the same asshole who, on live television, called my work  _shitty_  in a Senate building yesterday and had the gall to wink at me  _as you did it_."

Vegeta winked and rolled over. "Get some sleep. Maybe I'll make a real southern breakfast if you're nice to me."

Bulma waited until he was sleeping soundly before entering the room across the hall.  _I guess I'll borrow a night shirt to sleep in. I hope he doesn't mind. It's hard for me to believe that he doesn't keep other clothes in these rooms.  
_  
She woke up around 10 a.m. realizing that Vegeta was still sleeping. Making coffee was her first instinct before anything else.  Anxiety hit when she couldn't find any.  _What is wrong with this man?! How can he not have coffee?! No wonder he's so cranky._

She made the sign of the cross on her chest.  _God help me.  
_  
A text message popped up on her phone.  _"Stop digging in my cupboards. A can of Café du Monde is in the back of the fridge. The coffee press is in the dining room."_

Bulma exhaled as she texted back.  _"You have great hearing."_

" _No, I have an intercom in my kitchen - and before you ask, I feel like hell. I want you to go home."_

_"I'm coming upstairs."_

_"No."_

Bulma bit her fingernail. Reality had set in.  _"Vegeta--"_

_"You've done enough, Bulma. I appreciate it. I'll be fine. Last night was a close call."_

_Close call my ass¸_ she thought.  _He's being ridiculous. He wanted to have sex as much as I did. I just happened to understand… damn it. Why am I even concerned? He's right._

Frustration gave her temporary amnesia about her borrowed attire. She marched to Vegeta's room carrying Tussin and more tea. That was it.

Vegeta wanted to get up. He really did, but "fuck this" replayed in his head each time he tried. He totally blew it. He could have had sex with a beautiful woman and, just maybe, kept her as a friend. Yet this same woman had also been tasked with –- and handsomely paid for –- attempting to thwart his efforts. But what he did professionally had nothing to do with hatred. Every time he traveled around the country, he met people who felt like they had no voice speaking for them. He considered the poor living conditions for many in his home state.

 _All right, Vegeta. Snap out of this. You feel like crap, but you can work from home today. Get up. Maybe you can exercise later._ He laughed. Not hardly on that last one. He heard Bulma tramping down the hall and sighed. He surely looked a mess now, but his ego felt a small boost that she stayed around.

"I'm coming in," she said.

"I can't stop you," his voice rasped.

Bulma opened the door blowing steam from the tea cup. "Oh, wow. You sound like death." Vegeta must have awakened briefly during the night to undress, because she almost tripped over a chair after seeing him bare-chested. His arms and pecks were the most beautiful pieces of male anatomy she witnessed in a long, long time.

"What?" Vegeta stared at her curiously. "Do I look that bad?"

"Um, well, you just need to rest."

His inquisitive eyes slow-walked from Bulma's feet to the top of her head. Apparently she had helped herself to several pieces of clothing, including his boxer shorts. Boxer shorts? What woman does this with a man she hasn't even slept with yet? 

 _I_ _could be a crazy person for all she knows. Well, that's already been established, I suppose._   _But my god, she looks sexy in the shirt and white socks._ "I'm glad my clothing was comfortable enough for your slumber," he said with a straight face, "including the shorts. The colors bring out the blue in your irises."

Bulma's eyes widened. She looked down and blushed. "I…I thought…"

Vegeta adjusted his comforter, waving her over. "Oh, please. We're far past modesty now. I'm sure as hell not putting on a shirt."

His eyes closed partially as the urge to sneeze grabbed hold. Bulma handed him a tissue box. He sneezed heavily a few times and then laid back.

"I am  _so_  screwed," Bulma said. "I can't quit my job today, now that I'm sure I will catch whatever deadly plague you have within a few days. I still need health insurance."

Vegeta sniffled, replying, "I'm sure you can afford it on your own. Anyway, thank you. As I said, you should go. We can continue our conversation later. I'm going to work from home. Oh, and you can't have my clothes."

Bulma laughed softly. "Do you realize how hilarious you are? I haven't laughed this much or this hard in a long time."

"You just like dark humor," Vegeta replied. "It's an acquired taste for others. I have my reasons for not showing this side as much."

"Dr. Chennault, I hope you feel better." Bulma placed his tea on the nightstand, kissing his forehead. "I'll be going now. I'm happy to have a new friend."

Vegeta nodded. "Me too." He grasped her arm before she stood, shaking his head. Bulma's lips parted as he brought her closer. Her hands gently clutched his face, reading the anticipation and uncertainty in his eyes. He had been lonely for this kind of connection for so long. So had she. This wouldn't be a rough-and-tumble affair. Maybe in the future, but not today.

Vegeta pulled back the comforter. They smiled and kissed as she moved in next to him. He scooped up her body to embrace her from behind whispering, "You are beautiful." A bolt of energy shot up his spine as Bulma touched him below. He readjusted his shoulders, releasing her. Her masturbating him felt incredible. Unfortunately, he also felt unsteady.

This might not end well.

Concerned, Bulma stopped. "Do you like it?"

Vegeta closed his eyes and said, "You have no idea how great it feels. The problem is  _the rest_ of me."

Bulma brushed his hair back. "Well, you are sick, and god knows I don't want you puking all over me after orgasm. We don't have to do anything else. I think it's established that we'll finish what we started when you're better."

"Oh, hell yes," Vegeta said with a cheeky grin. After demanding that he take another dose of medicine, Bulma nestled into his rock-hard arms until they fell asleep.

* * *

**Thank you for reading. Please take a moment to leave a comment.**


	3. Strolling

After about a two hours Bulma thought she heard footsteps. She nudged Vegeta, who put his arm around her.

"You leaving now?"

"Vegeta, I think someone's here."

"What?" He raised in bed, glancing at a strategically placed baseball bat.

"I think someone is  _here_ ," Bulma repeated anxiously.

The joyful voice and booming footsteps hit high volume near the bedroom's door. "Brother! Your office assistant says you're feeling poorly. Ya never take off from work, so I'm here to help."

"Oh no." Vegeta covered his face. "Declan, wait..." His desperate vocal protest sounded like a baby frog's croak. Bulma pulled the bed sheets closer.

The door flew open, blowing papers off the dresser. A man, about six-feet-tall with brown hair, stood within its frame. His smile, reminiscent of a Hollywood actor, was as massive as his shoulders. Bulma didn't need an introduction.

"Aye, how are ya doing, lad?" Declan asked. "Ah...oh. Better than I thought!"

"Declan! Really?" Vegeta scowled as Bulma gave up the veneer of formality and giggled. "You think this is funny?!"

Bulma squeezed his hand. "Yeah."

"Oh, now I'm intrigued." Declan's hands clasped behind his back. "Ms., I do apologize for my interruption, but I must say I already like ya. Anyone who can get this swamp country sourpuss to blush must be quite special."

"Get out." Like an expert pitcher, Vegeta snatched a baseball from the nightstand and fired it at him. Declan caught it nimbly.

"You must control that temper." His touched his chin knowingly as Vegeta coughed. "Sounds like ya need a hot toddy for that throat, as well. Shame on ya for spreading germs to the lovely lady. I'll head back to the kitchen and make two mugs."

"Just please leave -- and I don't need one. Neither does she."

Declan nodded at Bulma once more. "Nice to meet, uh..."

"My name is Bulma."

"Lovely name," Declan said. "Oh yes. Vegeta,  _bonne f_ _ête_ _à toi_."

Vegeta's right fist clenched. "You're  _a day_  late, jackass."

Declan whistled as he closed the door. "Ms. Bulma, be sure to ask him what that means."

Bulma finally doubled over laughing while Vegeta pulled the sheets over his head. "He is a  _character_. So are you going to tell me what those words mean?"

"I'm not," Vegeta replied irritably. "Declan has a fantastic skill for stirring up trouble. It's like breathing for him. He bear-hugged me like I was a toddler when Emaline first introduced him. My sister found that hilarious. I didn't speak to her for a week."

Bulma pressed a button on her smartphone. "Edison, tell me what  _bonne f_ _ête_ _à toi_  means."

"It's an informal French dialectal phrase that means happy birthday to you," the device replied.

"Traitor," Vegeta said, taking her phone. "You can leave, too, for that matter." Maybe she was a spy. He had never heard any language description that precise before from his phone.

Bulma tickled his beard. "I would kiss you, but I think it's time to brush our teeth."

"Stop." Vegeta wrinkled his nose. "You're going to make me sneeze – and you can't use my toothbrush."

"I always carry one," Bulma said, laughing. "How can I leave here without being cornered again?"

"The door at the end of the hall leads to a stairwell, which lands next to the door where we entered. Run quickly before Declan tries to make you eat a cauldron of oatmeal."

Bulma opened the door. "I hope you feel better," she whispered between her giggles. "Really try to get some rest, OK? Happy belated birthday. I'll leave these clothes in the guest room. Thanks for letting me borrow them."

Vegeta blew his nose. "I don't believe I had a choice in that decision. Do whatever it takes not to catch what I have."

She smiled. "I would not mind you taking care of me."

"Bye." They pointed their index fingers at each other. The ball was in Vegeta's court now. He opened the window blinds for more sunshine. Then he heard Emaline's voice: " _Besson_ , go chase that hen."

Bulma texted after making a safe getaway back downtown. Driving to her Capitol Hill neighborhood was a surprisingly easy ride, so she stopped by a deli for a late lunch. Her mother's picture appeared on the phone as she sat down.

"Hey mom."

Bulma realized she was on speakerphone again. She wondered which hobby occupied Bunny today. The older woman's avocations kept craft store workers employed in three U.S. states.

"Just checking on you, sweetheart, while I work on my mosaic pottery. Bulma, I told all three of your brothers that you might come home for Thanksgiving."

"Mom, that's so not cool! You're using me a bargaining chip to make  _two_  of them travel there?"

Annoyed, Bunny exhaled. All the Brief children had an understanding that she would plot against them _whenever_ she felt like it. "Enough about that. Call me a gangster, darling. Are you at work? I hear a commotion."

"No, I'm at the deli eating lunch," Bulma muttered. "I took off from work today."

"Oh? Did something happen?"

"Yeah."

Bunny pondered her daughter's lengthy pause. "OK, sweetheart. Tell me all about him."

Dressed in a bathrobe and slippers, Vegeta entered the kitchen later looking disheveled after dragging himself from bed. He had to face the music. Raucous laughter greeted his pitiful appearance with a giant ball of tissues over his face. True to his word, Declan had a hot toddy ready. Beside him sat Barnabé, looking like a cat with a bird caught between its teeth.

Vegeta took the mug from Declan's hand and said, "You both will be the death of me before any illness. I can't drink this."

"You should," said a grinning Barnabé. "You look like roadkill, mon frère. Although you do seem… lighter. Happy birthday."

"You too are a day late,  _mon frère_ , and why in the hell are you here? It's eighty degrees in New Orleans. I'm surprised your balls and dick didn't freeze when you stepped off the plane here."

Barnabé squeezed his right bicep and smiled. "You want to arm wrestle, big brother? I might win in your sorry condition."

"Ya know why we're both here," Declan interrupted. "The only reason why we didna show up last night at Fleur-de-Lis is Fabien said not to."

"And you listened to  _him_?" Vegeta asked with disbelief.

"He said a lady caught your eye. When's the last time  _that's_ happened? Trust me, it was a tough decision for Barnabé and me not to come ruin it, but it seems everything worked out."

Barnabé leaned forward. "Now tell us about the lady."

"Boys, look, I…"

Declan placed his hands on the table. " _Vegeta_ , let me tell ya something. Not even your bloodshot eyes can hide the sparkle I see. I remember how I felt the first day I met your bessonne. There is… no mistaking it."

Vegeta met their serious gazes with his own. "I'm returning to bed. I know I will never live this down, but you are right. I can't let her slip through my fingers. Now be useful and make some groceries. You know what I like to eat."

* * *

A year and a half later, Bulma and Vegeta stood holding hands as a Zydeco band played a special song for them in a banquet hall. The couple slowly strolled along the perimeter of the dance floor. One by one, their wedding guests found partners and marched behind them. The bride and groom then moved to the middle of the floor to waltz, while everyone watched.

"You are an excellent dancer," Bulma said. "I didn't know you had it in you. Did you learn from Barnabé? I am so glad he worked with me on this."

Vegeta glared at his baby brother over her shoulder. "I do have some redeeming qualities – and, no, damn it. He learned  _from me_."

Barnabé, who figured out what happened, clapped and laughed.

Later, while their happy guests continued their carousing, the newlyweds found a cooler, quieter spot outside near a river on the grounds. Both felt relieved to be alone together, especially Vegeta. The Louisiana sunset made a spectacular appearance.

"We could have had a much smaller affair, Dr. Chennault."

"Yeah, right," Vegeta said as they kissed. "Let's just say you owe me, Dr. Brief."

Bulma reached into her silk purse and said, "I have something for you." Vegeta tensed somewhat as she placed a medium-size jewelry case into his hand. "It's OK, honey. Open it."

"Femme, we're supposed to give our gifts to each other at the same time."

"Let me do it then." Bulma knew this would be emotional for them both, but she hadn't expected to cry so much as Vegeta looked on. She removed a brushed-silver pocket watch, which had "with all my love" engraved on the outside. Inside contained a photo of Vegeta's father and Emaline. The girl stood on his toes within his embrace.

After wiping Bulma's eyes, Vegeta kissed her as tears fell from his. They held hands and proceeded down the riverside as guests looked on from inside the banquet hall.

Declan and Barnabé stood watching from the doors. They embraced each other's shoulders.

* * *

**You have reached the end. Thank you for taking time read this story and others. I appreciate your support!**


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